


Waiting in the Wings

by bioloyg



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Alternate Universe - Human, Angel Sam, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Character Death, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natasha and Sam are angels and everyone else remains to be seen, Pining, Sam POV, Slow Burn, Well Bucky is at least, Winter Falcon, bucky pov, mentions of past NatSharon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8915488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioloyg/pseuds/bioloyg
Summary: "He’s not sure what it is that draws Sam to his space, be it him or some other divine purpose, but he’s not willing to push, afraid to find the answer. Despite Sam’s cryptic nature, and the swirling pool of mystery that surrounds him, he’s the closest thing Bucky has had to a best friend in a very long time. There’s some sort of understanding – something Bucky can’t quite place his finger on. He feels like he knows something about Sam that he shouldn’t sometimes – how Sam is just as in need of a friend as he is."~An AU wherein Sam is a Guardian Angel and Bucky is his ward. Not everything is as it seems at first glance. It isn't a pretty life, but it's not ugly either.Oh, and everything works out in the end. Promise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, if you follow me @zamnwilson on tumblr then you've probably already read or seen some fragment of this story, but it may seem a little different bc of how I've arranged the chapters.  
> If not, then welcome to the fic where I rip your heart out for fun (I'm totally kidding omg). Sam is an angel and Bucky is a mopey human, and together they discover some things about themselves. It's not all sunshine and butterflies, so I apologize in advance for that, but I pinky promise that the ending is a good one. Scout's honor.
> 
> Enjoy :)

_Oof._

When he opens his eyes he sees stars. And not the metaphorical kind that falling from such a height probably should’ve sent flying into his field of vision. Nope. He sees _actual_ stars. The glowing orbs humans wish on nightly; his home. They’re so much prettier from afar. He can almost appreciate them better this way. He actually makes himself a little homesick just looking at them so long.

Sam sighs and gathers himself from the forest floor. He hates coming down to Earth sometimes. Aside from being pulled from family, transitioning from metaphysical to corporeal is no fun. As powerful as angels are, they still haven’t derived a method for getting to Earth that doesn’t involve plummeting and hurting all over. So, they drop from the sky like meteors, burning in the atmosphere just the same.

“You think they’d have figured it out after _eons_ , but no. ‘Respond in a timely manner,’ my ass.” Sam huffs and brushes leaves from his arms and back, grumbling to himself as he goes about his business. He tilts his head over his shoulder to look back at his wings and frowns. He’s going to be grounded for at least an hour.  It’s been a while since he’s flown and his wings are a little worse for wear.

Who knew angels had to preen their wings too?

Sam stretches his arms above his head and his wings follow suit, opening up. First his left shoulder pops, then his right, and then the joints in his wings creak and crack until a rush of low-level pleasure floods Sam’s body. He smirks and shakes his wings – almost like a pianist warming up their fingers. Maybe he’s not as rusty as he thought.

He changes his estimate to thirty minutes.

By the time thirty minutes rolls around, Sam has made it to the edge of the forest he fell into. A diner greets him from across the street, and a host of people walk along the sidewalk unaware. None of them will be able to see him unless he wills it, and Sam tries to keep a low profile – most of the time.

Sam studies the people in silence for a moment and his wings flex behind him as he thinks. It’s been a few years since he’s been assigned to a human on Earth, and it’s nice to be back in his original home. Sometimes it dredges up bitter thoughts and memories, but mostly it gives Sam the light feeling of nostalgia. He was, after all, a human first.

He’s engrossed in a woman’s conversation about her ex-boyfriend and current girlfriend when a chill crawls across his skin. He looks up just in time to see a woman walking into traffic without looking but before he can act, a miffed, redheaded angel materializes beside the unaware woman and flicks her behind the ear. The human startles slightly and looks around only to jerk back when she sees the car that was about to hit her. She earns herself the harsh drone of the car horn and the ruffled look of her guardian – but only one of those is evident to her.

The angel crosses their arms in what looks like motherly disappointment, and when they catch Sam staring they raise their eyebrow. Then, the recognition kicks in and the angel grins, sharp and mischievous. Sam wonders how she managed to fall into the good graces of god sometimes, looking as dangerous as she does – being as lethal as she was. 

“ _Well_ , look what the cat dragged in,” she purrs as she makes her way across the street. Her voice is near and far all at once, echoing the way all angels’ voices do on the mortal plain when they haven’t revealed themselves yet. “What brings you back to Earth, Sam?”

He shakes his head slightly. “Hello to you _too_ , Natalia.”

Her silky black feathers puff out as she pouts. “It’s Natasha now.” It makes her look like a hatchling.

“How’s Nat work for you?”

“Acceptable.”

Sam smiles. “I see you’re still watching Isabelle.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “If she doesn’t watch where she’s going I won’t be watching her much longer.”

“You _are_ here to guard her.”

“Guide – I’m here to _guide_ her. I can’t pilot her body for her.” Nat frowns and looks back toward the human in her charge. “She’s smart, but easily distracted.”

“Aren’t they all?” Sam wonders as he looks around once more.

He’s greeted with a dry look when he returns to the conversation. “Not all of them are smart.”

One dashes across the street mere inches from a speeding car as if to prove Natasha’s point. Sam twists his lips and nods. “They’re definitely a little more careless than they should be.”

Nat shakes her head, annoyed, and then asks, “So, where is yours? You haven’t been here since… what?”

“The mid 1900’s,” Sam answers immediately. Those were darker times.

He took a break from Earth after World War II. There are some things that just aren’t supposed to happen, and that was one of them. It was caused by a momentary rift in the universe – ugliness unspeakable. He remembers the Powers fighting their best to combat the evil forces rearing their heads. Remembers the ripe grief emanated by all the guardian angels who felt as if they were failures. Sam was disappointed in humans for a while after that. He couldn’t understand how they could do such a thing to their brethren.

Natasha rests a hand on his shoulder, suddenly beside him. “It’s different now.”

“Not really,” Sam answers with a sigh.

Her lips thin and she looks away. “You can’t afford to think like that.”

“I know.” He blinks the memories away and draws his wings tight against his back like a shield. “Besides, my human is _here_ – not off fighting.”

“Just who is this lucky human?” Nat asks, effectively guiding the conversation toward a lighter topic. She doesn’t _actually_ care about humans outside of her guardianship, she usually just wants to compare – see who’s got more work cut out for themselves.

Sam closes his eyes and follows the ever insistent tug pulling him away, away, _away._ He opens his eyes once he definitively locates the person reeling him in. “His name is James.”

“James, huh?” Nat snorts and pats Sam’s shoulder. “Good luck with that. The men in this age are reckless.”

Sam laughs. “And here you said things were _different._ ”

~

His hair is mussed, his eyes are bloodshot, and he’s missing an arm.

Sam has never seen someone so broken – in spirit mostly, but also in body. The first time Sam sees James is after a nightmare. The fear coursing through James’ body was so violently tangible that Sam thought he was in real danger. He spent the whole night watching James just in case.

The first time James sees Sam though… That’s an accident.

Sam has been watching James – no, _Bucky_ – for months. Almost a year, actually. In this year Sam has ached, laughed, and cried alongside Bucky. Learned just how Bucky lost his left arm. Watched the way he interacts with people and how different that is from how he acts around his friends. Sam is curious. That’s all. The angels back on base would say he’s too invested, but Sam can’t say he cares.

It’s been a while since he’s seen a human so selfless that they’ve crossed over into a near careless recklessness. James wasn’t always this way though. At least not _as_ reckless. He was a firefighter. He was methodical, knew when to quit and retreat. He was great at his job and an all-around good guy, or at least that’s what Sam hears his friends saying.

Now Bucky is battered and tired and _angry._ Mostly with himself though, very rarely with others. He’s quiet and withdrawn on those days, and it’s on those days that Sam finds himself hovering, exuding positive energy in the hopes that some of it will _finally_ seep through Bucky’s skin. That Bucky will _finally_ give himself a break. And it’s on one of those days that Sam unintentionally reveals himself – so caught up in his thoughts about how to show Bucky it’s _okay_ that he slips up.

Believe it or not, it takes a concentrated effort to remain concealed when you’re an angel. If only it _were_ a mindless task.

Sam regrets it as soon as it happens too. Humans and any class of angel are very rarely meant to interact and when they do, the angel is, more often than not, disguised as a human. Sam is very much _not_ like any human when he and Bucky meet for “the first time.”

Bucky is in the middle of an episode. His breathing is shallow and his vision is most likely focused to the point of being tunneled. What’s worse is that when he snaps out of it he punches the nearest surface only to cry out. Bucky is spread out on the floor, cursing himself when Sam says, “You’re always so hard on yourself – and for what?”

Normally, that’s not an issue. Sam has all sorts of commentary about humans, especially the ones in his charge. He comments on Bucky’s atrocious taste in peanut butter (honestly who eats crunchy with a PB&J?), and he has never reserved his disgust at the fact that Bucky would willingly put anchovies on a pizza if they were offered at places that actually deliver. But _never,_ not **once** , has Sam said those things and been heard.

Bucky startles so hard he hits his head on a chair nearby. “Who said tha–” he stops mid-sentence, and that’s when Sam knows he’s screwed.

It’s always the wings that scare people. Not the fact that Sam looks like he’s on fire or anything – always the wings. He guesses that makes sense since they’re pretty huge. Almost twice the size of his body actually. But still, Bucky looks horrified, and Sam is sure it’s because of the mottled wings that are spread across the width of the room (all because Sam got startled when he and Bucky made eye contact).

However, the disconnect between Sam noticing that he’s revealed himself is a bit too long, and rather than explain himself Sam chooses to just… disappear. Mostly because he’s shocked that he screwed up, but also because he had no idea what to say. He instantly feels guilty though, and the feeling only worsens when Bucky begins to think he was seeing things.

Eventually, Sam caves and reveals himself again, this time sans wings. Bucky is seated at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee in hand, but he’s staring at the napkins piled in the middle of the table like he can use those to wipe up the mess that his life has become. Sam could use a few of those napkins himself if he’s being honest. That flimsy paper can’t exactly take back Sam’s mistakes though.

Sam lets out a deep sigh and materializes. If anything, he tells himself this isn’t a mistake solely because Bucky deserves to know he hasn’t lost all semblance of reality. Sam is sure to knock on something nearby to alert Bucky of his presence this time, too.

Sam’s not sure how he expected Bucky to react, but this blasé attitude he’s met with isn’t it. Bucky turns around slowly and lets out a resigned sigh as soon as he sees Sam before saying, “Either I’ve gone off the deep end and I’m hallucinating again or you broke into my house.”

“Neither,” Sam says, because it isn’t really breaking and entering if you don’t have to break in to be there. He bites the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say. It’s been a while since he interacted with a human, especially one in his care. He feels out of practice for some reason despite the fact that he socializes with nearby guardians on a fairly regular basis.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “If I’m not hallucinating, then how come you had wings the last time I saw you?”

Sam tilts his head slightly and his face scrunches up in something like disbelief. “You’re worried about my wings and not the fact that a stranger is in your house?” _No wonder he needs a guardian angel._

“You said you didn’t break in,” Bucky retorts. “And I never said I wasn’t concerned. For all you know I’ve already hit a panic button and the police are on their way.” 

“You left your panic button in your room.”

Bucky stares vacantly at Sam for an agonizing twenty seconds and then nods. “Are you gonna kill me then?” Bucky asks. His voice is worryingly hollow.

Sam’s heart feels like it’s being crushed. He would never. A guardian _couldn’t_. “No.”

“S’too bad. Thought you might be an angel of death.”

“That’s a myth,” Sam says instead of addressing the fact that Bucky wishes he were dead half the time. Sam used to know what that was like back when he was human.

Bucky snorts. “ _You’re_ a myth.”

Sam shrugs. “In a manner of speaking, I guess.” The two of them stare at each other for a moment before Sam says, “You’re oddly relaxed for a person looking at an angel.”

“I’m still half convinced I’m dreaming.”

“I could pinch you,” Sam offers. He’s wanted to every time Bucky has done something stupid. It would be beneficial for the both of them.

Bucky passes on said offer. “I don’t need you to pinch me to know that I’m awake. My dreams aren’t this nice.”

Sam frowns again. He’s not sure what to do with that information. It’s not new to him, and therefore it’s unsurprising, but that doesn’t make it any less worrying. Angels can’t cure the plague known as survivor’s guilt though, and Sam sure as hell can’t bring Bucky’s other arm back either.

“So, if you’re not here to kill me then why _are_ you here?”

“Why does there have to be a reason?” Sam fires back, deflecting. This is territory he should definitely not enter, but he’d rather not lie. It’s something that has tangible effects on his form, makes him feel dirty – like a day at the beach with no shower afterwards.

Bucky levels Sam with a look. “Pretty sure God wouldn’t send an angel down here without a reason.”

“God doesn’t need reasons.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Fair enough.” Bucky crumples a napkin up in his right hand. “Are you allowed to tell me?”

Sam considers this. There are no explicit rules stating guardians remain hidden or that they should avoid revealing their true purpose, but it’s a code that’s been assumed over the years due to a series of problems that have arisen whenever angels _have._

Another myth Sam would like to dispel: Not all angels are immortal. At least in the sense that they can’t be killed. If left alone they _can_  carry on forever, but they’re not unbreakable.

A few minutes pass where Bucky patiently awaits Sam’s answer. Finally, Sam says, “Yes, but I have no reason to right now.”

“Me asking isn’t reason enough.” It’s not a question, Bucky seems to know.

Sam shakes his head. “Maybe one day it will be, but not today.”

With that, Sam disappears. One of the napkins from the middle of the table spins in his wake and falls in front of Bucky with a succinct, “ _Sam,_ ” written on the face.


	2. Chapter 2

Falling. Always falling.

Sam’s robes billow around him as he materializes. No, the smoke from his suit leaves a trail leading upward from whence he came.

_Not again._

He pushes Riley out of the way, he gets hit, he dies.  _No_ , he jumps from the world above, sacrifices himself all over again for the sake of another.

Past, present, they all blend together. It’s like a nightmare.

He feels the blood pool in his lungs, his ears pop, and when he hits the ground there is a pain so unspeakable that he feels it when he wakes up on the final plain. He feels the rush of adrenaline, anxiety builds in his core until he wants to puke, and when he hits the ground the ground gives way to accommodate him unlike the first time. 

Still hurts though.

Sometimes these events are simultaneous or juxtaposed, interwoven or separate. Happening in repeat as Sam moves through time. Happening twice. Happens when Sam falls to Earth as both an angel, and a misguided human.

It  _always_  hurts.

As an angel, time is meaningless. Time is relative. And Sam is outside of that sphere of relativity as a Guardian. He’s not above it; that’ll never happen. Even angels fall prey to time every once in a while. Angels just experience it differently. Sometimes Sam wishes time  _were_  linear. If that were at all the case, he wouldn’t be sitting here watching his own funeral. Watching Riley cry for the thousandth time. Watching his family mourn. 

The real tragedy here is that Sam can’t feel a thing. He, and many like himself, have been trained not to feel any particular way about death. It is a necessity, a certainty, and out of their control.

That doesn’t mean that Sam is devoid of opinions, or that he isn’t saddened by pointless deaths. But, when things are out of his hands, he knows that he needn’t waste the emotional energy on it. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. It’s not Sam’s place, as a Guardian, to question the whims of the universe or its many higher deities.

Death  _is_  and  _does_. He isn’t and cannot.

Sam can’t imagine what having that kind of power would be like. He’s glad he doesn’t have it, even if the option was never one afforded to him in the first place.

So, like Sam does every time he attends his own funeral, or any time he visits Riley in a space where he as a human no longer exists, Sam plants a soft kiss on Riley’s temple and wishes him well in this lifetime. And just like every time, his voice goes unheard.

Riley still cries. Riley still spirals. Riley still dies three years later.

They are falling.  _Always_  falling.

If Sam were human, he would be enraged. If Sam were human, he would mourn the loss of Riley. Fight to understand why Riley, of all people, was never assigned a Guardian when people far less deserving were given one. But Sam isn’t human. Sam is the repackaged remains of his soul held together by stardust and unspeakable power. As an angel, he is beyond the human spectrum of emotion. Beyond time. Beyond age.

So instead, he kisses Riley on the temple one more time in a list of many and wishes him a happy life, like always. Sam doesn’t let the vestiges of his human mind fool him into thinking he can save Riley.

Sam dies. Riley dies. These points are fixed. Immutable. So… why does Sam feel like he’s being stabbed every time?

~

“I can feel you in here,” Bucky says sleepily. 

The lights in his room are off, as is par for the course with him nowadays, and the ceiling fan above whirs on high speed. It’s late in the afternoon, and Sam has been watching Bucky for most of the day. He tends to hover whenever he’s reminded of his own death.

Sam imagines that high-born angels don’t have that issue. They never had to die to be. They just were. Earth-born angels are always a little bit more protective. It causes issues every few centuries. The high-born angels don’t quite understand why some earth-born angels stick so closely to their humans when they could just as easily go about their other duties. Humans aren’t inept, after all. It’s hard to explain the intricacies of death, and aging, or the feelings they invoke to beings that haven’t and will never experience it though.

Sam twists his lips and reveals himself, ends up sitting on Bucky’s bureau. He figures he might as well humor the guy. Bucky  _is_  right after all. “Do you say that every once in a while, hoping I’ll appear? I’m not always here, y’know. And I won’t always show myself either.”

Bucky turns his head toward Sam, a small grin on his lips. “You did this time though.” At Sam’s eye roll, Bucky continues, saying, “And I actually _can_ feel you. I’m not just guessing.”

Sam snorts. There are very few humans who can sense an angel’s presence, and most of those who can are usually on their deathbed. Bucky is  _not_  on his deathbed. Sam would know. “Sure you can.”

“I _can_ ,” Bucky insists. “It smells different when you’re around. Like something is burning.”

Sam stills, the memory of his death close overhead. He reminds himself this is ridiculous and that he shouldn’t be entertaining any of Bucky’s weird ideas about angels and what they do or don’t smell like.

“You don’t believe me,” Bucky huffs as he looks up at his ceiling fan.

“Not one bit,” Sam confesses.

Bucky looks at him again, miffed. “Fine, I’ll prove it to you. Anytime you’re here I’ll say something to get your attention.”

“Please don’t.” Sam slips from the bureau and walks into the other room. The last thing Sam needs is Bucky speaking to him  _every single time_  he’s within a twenty-foot radius.

He regrets his carelessness all those weeks ago. Bucky is one of those inquiring minds, always in pursuit of some sort of answer, a way to make sense of things. It’s a great trait to have, Sam just wishes Bucky would angle it in a different direction every once in a while. He’s tired of fielding questions.

Bucky follows after Sam shortly, though his gait is interrupted by a subtle limp. Sam frowns when he sees. “You should try to keep up with your physical therapy.”

“When I can drag myself out of bed, I will.”

“You did just now. Why don’t you give it a whirl?”

Bucky makes a face. He knows he’s been caught in a web there, but he steers the conversation elsewhere like he always does when Sam calls him out for something. “So, what brings you here today, Sam?”

“None of your business.”

Bucky lets out a displeased grunt. “Are all angels like this?”

Sam crosses his arms and looks out of Bucky’s kitchen window. It faces directly into the side of another building, which is disappointing but not uncommon here. “Like what?”

“Y’know, blunt, cryptic. You’re a little on the cold side. I always imagined you guys would be a lot nicer.”

Sam turns his head to the side slightly, only half invested in the conversation. “Angels aren’t supposed to talk to humans. For all you know, I’m a ray of sunshine when I’m around other people.”

“Oh, so I get special treatment,” Bucky says, his tone leaning too far towards sarcastic for Sam’s taste.

He still grins, but he turns back toward the window before Bucky can see it. “I don’t know why I even talk to you. You’re annoying as hell.”

“Why  _do_  you visit me Sam?”

Sam uncrosses his arms and leans on the kitchen counter. They still haven’t talked about it, despite Bucky’s persistence. Sam lets out a drawn out sigh. “Maybe I like to people watch.”

“Just me, though.”

Sam turns toward Bucky and narrows his eyes. “You’re not the only person in the world.”

“Didn’t say that,” Bucky intones. “Just seems like you hang around here a lot.”

Sam makes a face. “How would you know?”

“Told ya,” Bucky says as he taps his temple. “I just know.”

~

It’s yet another day where Sam finds himself in Bucky’s company. For a human, he’s oddly magnetic – and in a way that surprises Sam. Guardianship is the primary reason angels watch and/or interact with humans, but Sam is drawn to Bucky’s side for more reasons than guardianship. Sometimes he visits because Bucky is fragile, and sometimes he visits because Bucky makes him feel a little more human. More often than not though, he visits because Bucky’s apartment feels like a quiet refuge. One tucked away from everything in Sam’s heart that he pushes to the wayside.

His thoughts still catch up to him though. In fact, Sam is lost in a thought again, his mind thirty miles away wondering what it would be like if… the thought itself isn’t important. What’s important is the thing that snaps him from his thoughts. What matters is how red and blistered Bucky’s hand is right now, the look of betrayal on Bucky’s face, the confusion and  _hurt_.

Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Bucky…”

Bucky shakes his head and holds his hand to his chest, much the same way someone with two arms would, only he’s missing the other hand to cover the wounded one. Ten seconds pass and the hurt on his face turns to something white hot and  _angry_. “What the fuck, Sam?” he spits.

“You shouldn’t have touched me,” Sam says, his voice flat. All he can see is how red Bucky’s palm is. He takes a step forward and says, “Here, let me,” but Bucky takes a step back…

And that – that makes something in Sam’s insides twist. He pushes that aside to deal with later and holds up his hands in a placating manner. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s eyebrows scrunch and he takes another step back. He turns away altogether and nudges the kitchen faucet until cold water runs and hisses as he runs it over his palm. His cheeks are flushed and Sam thinks he might see a tear. Sam’s insides twist further, like a butterfly knot. He unravels it and focuses on Bucky.

Eventually Bucky says, “What the hell was that?”

Sam frowns. This is yet another reason he never should have been so careless as to reveal himself. He’s a danger to be around – at least with humans. “It’s – complicated.”

Bucky turns off the water abruptly and pointedly looks at Sam. He thrusts his hand outward, like a child might offer their parent a misshapen macaroni landscape, wide eyed and expectant. But Bucky’s expectations are barbed. “Make it  ** _un_** complicated.”

“Angels are not to be touched without their permission.”

That seems to knock a bit of wind out of Bucky’s sails. “I didn’t realize you were so opposed to human contact. _Sorry_.”

It’s not a real apology and Sam knows it, but still he says, “Don’t apologize. I should have warned you.” He tries again and steps forward, holds out one of his hands and says, “It’s not because we want to avoid humans, or dislike you, it’s because we’re not made of the same things you are.”

“No shit,” Bucky replies dryly. He cautiously allows Sam to take his hand and flinches again. “Now you’re ice ** _cold_**.”

Sam smiles wryly. “Touching an angel in their natural state is like touching the sun. That’s all we are; star dust.” He holds Bucky’s hand palm up in his and places his other hand over the tender skin. Gold light seeps out of the spaces in between their hands and fingers, and when Sam lets go Bucky’s hand is as good as new.

“You’re supposed to ask for permission so that I can make myself more human. More – uh –  _here_.”

Bucky looks at his hand, fascinated, and flexes his fingers. He mumbles as he stares at the fresh pink skin, “How can you be any more here than you already are? That makes no sense.”

Sam sighs. “My wings, you stare at them all the time. Haven’t you seen them phase through things? What’d you think that was a glitch in the matrix?”

“And here you said you didn’t watch movies.”

“I never said that,” Sam says with a small smile. “You just assumed.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Fine. Say I did notice your wings never really touch anything. What does that have to do with you being anymore here or human than you already were?”

Sam groans. “This is a lot harder to explain than you seem to think. It’s like if you were to explain to a child that the sky is lime green even though they know it’s blue. Your physics and my physics are different, so even though I look ‘here’ to you that’s not always the case.”

Bucky opens his mouth, takes a deep breath, then closes it and his eyes and shakes his head. “That cleared up exactly  _nothing_  but I’m too tired to ask any more questions right now.”

“Thank  _god_ ,” Sam mutters.

“Are you even allowed to say that?” Bucky says as he walks toward the living room.

Sam follows and stops in the entryway. “I thought you were too tired to ask questions.”

“Questions about angel physics.”

“I’m too tired to answer,” Sam replies around a fake yawn.

Bucky plops down on the couch and says, “I highly doubt angels get tired.”

Sam ignores him and sits down in the love seat adjacent to the couch, then folds his legs onto the cushions, crisscross applesauce. He takes in a deep breath and then looks at Bucky, thinking. “What did you want earlier?”

“Huh?” Bucky asks as he absently flips through channels on the TV. He turns to look at Sam. “What do you mean?”

Sam sits up straight. “When you touched me – what did you want?”

Bucky grimaces. “I was talking to you but you weren’t answering, and you looked kind of off so I was trying to get your attention.”

“What do you mean I looked ‘off?’”

Setting down the remote, Bucky shrugs and says, “I dunno, like when you stick your hand through a hologram and the image gets distorted. It looked like you were having trouble staying here. But I guess that’s just your angel physics.” He waves his hand at the end of his sentence and then turns back to the TV.

Sam’s eyebrows fall in confusion but all he says in return is, “Yeah. My angel physics.”

~

Nat takes one look at Sam as he approaches her and says, “Uh oh. Who’s in trouble now?”

Sam smiles and looks down. “No one but me, Nat. You can unclench now.”

She punches him in the shoulder as soon as he sits down beside her. “Har har. Now tell me what’s got your feathers all ruffled.”

“Just something James said to me the other day.”

Natasha purses her lips and then looks away. “You’re still talking to him, huh?”

“It’s kind of hard not to.”

She sighs, and something about it seems sad, which is definitely out of place for her – never mind the fact that angels aren’t supposed to feel basal emotions like that. “Don’t let it affect your work.”

Sam narrows his eyes at her. “When have I ever?”

She shakes her head and looks down at her ward. “That’s not what I meant. Just – don’t get too attached. Humans are fragile and weak and  _temporary_.” The last word comes out bitter and dark.

“Why do I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me?”

“It’s nothing,” she insists. “What did James say to you?”

Sam lets his legs dangle over the side of the building, swinging them. “He said something that equated to me looking like I was disappearing.”

“And were you?”

“Not intentionally, no.”

Nat looks at him for a moment, observing. “What were you doing?”

Sam sighs and looks upward. “I was thinking.”

“About?” She wonders, leading.

“I was just – confused about something. So, I got a little bit lost in thought. That’s about the time he said I looked like I was glitching.”

Nat raises her eyebrows. “That doesn’t tell me what you were thinking about.”

“Why is that important, Natasha?” Sam asks impatiently.

She huffs and a wicked smirk forms on her face. “It’s Natasha now, huh?” She sighs and looks away again. “It’s important because your state of mind can affect your corporeal form and you know that, so stop beating around the bush.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I was thinking about Riley.”

“Mm.”

“Yeah, see. That right there is why I didn’t say it.”

Nat rests her hand on his shoulder. “Because you know that you shouldn’t be dwelling on it. Nothing good will come from it. You can’t change what happened.”

“I never said I wanted to change it, I said I was  _confused_ ,” Sam intones.

“What exactly is so confusing about that situation? You died; he died. End of story.” Her hand falls.

Sam snorts. “Wow.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” Sam says with a laugh.

“Okay then. What’s confusing?”

Sam shrugs and leans forward, looks down at the pavement below and thinks about how he died. “It seems pointless for me to die saving Riley only for him to die the exact same way I was trying to prevent. It just doesn’t make sense to me – how he could die like that. In  _that_  way. How come  _he_  never got a guardian?”

Natasha’s face falls and she sighs. “Because  _you_  were his guardian Sam, and you died protecting him. That’s why you’re here.”

“That doesn’t seem fair to him.”

Her wings go stiff. “What we think is fair doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and we can’t change it.”

Sam laughs. “If that were true there’d be no divine intervention.”

“Divine intervention and changing the course of history are two different things, Sam.”

“Are they really?” He asks. “Because divine intervention changes the natural course of history.”

“ _We_  determine the natural course of history.”

“No, we determine who lives to see it.” He nods down at the people passing by on the sidewalk below. “They have free will for a reason, so that they can shape their lives and their worlds.  _They_  are the natural forces;  _we_ are something else entirely. What exactly makes some of them worth saving and others unimportant?”

Nat looks at him for a moment, her face passive. She turns away once she’s finished with whatever she was doing and says, “If they’re natural forces, then Riley’s death is nothing but his own fault, and whether or not we intervened is irrelevant.”

“It’s completely relevant. Why intervene at all if it’s only for a select few?”

Natasha’s black wings unfold and she stands. “There aren’t enough of us to save all of them, and some of them don’t need to be saved.”

Sam watches as Natasha leaps from the building. Her black wings opened wide like a parachute. He gets up shortly after and spreads his own wings, closing his eyes once the breeze slides across his feathers. Without looking he lifts one leg off the ledge and falls…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** There is a death of a major character from the MCU in this chapter. Without spoiling too much, I would just like to say this is something that is resolved in one way or another.
> 
> If you're still going to read, enjoy<3

“Do angels have dreams?” Bucky asks, his voice permeating the previously stagnant air of his apartment. He knows Sam is here, whether Sam believes it or not. He knows because the room will get ice cold for a split second when Sam appears, and suddenly everything will smell like ozone – sharp and strong, but sweet underneath it all. Other times the room will smell like it’s on fire. Bucky isn’t so sure he likes those days. Those days Sam is usually in a mood. Those days he remembers…

Anyway.

Bucky tucks the jar of pickles he grabbed earlier in between his thighs. He loosens the lid just enough that its inner contents don’t spill all over his sweatpants. It’s a skill he’s only just mastered and even then, it’s hit or miss.

“Do you guys even sleep?” he continues, hoping to coax Sam out of hiding. He’s not sure he understands why the guy hangs around all the time if he’s just gonna spend it skulking in the shadows.

Eventually Sam caves, like he always does, and reveals himself to say, “It’s complicated.”

He still manages to startle Bucky though, who drops the jar in his lone hand. But, Sam manages to catch it despite being across the room not more than a second ago. He’s oddly close to Bucky when he pops the jar open completely, setting it on the counter once he’s finished while saying, “You should be more careful.”

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Bucky says indignantly.

Sam presses his lips together and then walks toward the kitchen table. His wings are so long they drag against the floor, but they also don’t look like they’re touching it. Sam doesn’t even look like he’s touching half the things he interacts with. It always seems like there’s a barrier there. “I wasn’t  _sneaking_. Besides, you said you knew when I was here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shoves the entirety of two baby pickles in his mouth. He speaks as he chews because he feels like that’s something that would annoy Sam. “Just because I know you’re here doesn’t mean I can predict when you’ll actually show yourself.”

“Whatever.”

“Ugh,” Bucky huffs. He takes the jar from the counter with him as he sits across from Sam. “You never answered my question by the way.”

Sam looks up at Bucky from beneath his lashes, like he’s annoyed that he’s being asked anything about himself. Apparently introspection isn’t a thing angels are fond of. Bucky can relate. Finally, Sam says, “Our sleep isn’t the same as yours.”

“And what does that mean?” At Sam’s vacant expression Bucky says, “Oh come on, you can’t say something vague like that and expect me to be done with it.”

“Everyone else would,” Sam mutters beneath his breath.

“Yeah well I’m not them, am I?”

Sam considers Bucky for a moment then, and Bucky feels wholly insignificant every second of it – being the focus of such an ethereal person. Sam’s eyes shine bright, like lava, and then they’re a humanly brown again as he says, “I guess you’re right about that.”

Bucky lifts his head then, juts his chin out in one-part defiance and another part pride. He lets himself have that moment. “I know. Now explain.”

A tired sigh fills the space between them, frosting one side of Bucky’s jar of pickles. He looks at it, eyebrows drawn together in question, but before he can mention it Sam says, “We don’t  _need_ sleep. It’s more – It’s like a way for us to move through time, or communicate beyond the veil.”

It takes a moment for Bucky to parse that out. He chuckles after a moment and says, “It’s a way for humans to move through time, too.”

Sam rolls his eyes, and it’s almost like his whole body follows suit. “Not like  _that_  smartass. It’s hard to explain. Just –  _no_ , we don’t have dreams.”

Bucky frowns. “Do you ever miss it?”

“What makes you think I was ever human?” Sam’s fingers move in a waterfall motion against the table, tap, tap, tapping impatiently. He’s always testy when Bucky asks too many questions, but he’s also answering them so Bucky can’t be bothered to stop.

“The way you look at people. Even at me. It’s like you’re missing something.” Bucky taps his pointer finger on the table a few times, thinking. He’s actually thought about this a lot. He has a feeling that’s one of the reasons Sam comes here so often, actually. He says as much. “Why else would someone like you bother coming a place like this?”

Sam lets out a dry laugh then. “‘Someone like me.’ What does that mean?”

“An angel,  _duh_.” Bucky turns his head to the side. “Still don’t get why else you’d be here. It’s obviously not for  _my_  company.”

When he looks back Sam is scowling like he might  _actually_  be upset, not that half-assed frustration he puts off when Bucky has a field day asking questions. “Why  _wouldn’t_  it be for you?” he asks.

Bucky almost doesn’t take the question seriously, but Sam looks ready to argue so Bucky says, “If you came here for a specific human I have a hard time believing you’d choose me of all people. It’s not like I get out much, Sam.”

“What if that’s the exact reason I chose you?”

Bucky looks at Sam, stupefied. “Wh- I…” He turns away again and clears his throat, skirting over the issue by saying, “You chose me, huh?”

Sam groans and his wings flutter against his back. “Why are you like this?”

Bucky snorts. “Couldn’t even tell you if I tried.”

A small grin finds its way onto Sam’s face but only for a split second, like he can’t bear to let Bucky think he’s actually funny. “You’re something else.”

“And you’re deflecting again.”

Sam shoots Bucky a dirty look. “Not only is that rich coming from you, but we’ve talked about this.”

Bucky lets out a deep sigh. “Will you at least tell me why you can’t say anything about it.”

“It’s not that I can’t so much as it isn’t really any of your business. I’ve already done enough damage showing myself to you.” Sam’s wings go rigid then and the feathers lie pin straight against one another, not a single one out of place. Sam looks guilty.

Bucky almost feels bad. “Why do you keep coming back?”

“I’m tied to this place,” Sam says, vague and placid as always.

Bucky screws up his face. “What like a ghost?”

Sam lets out a long sigh. “More like a horse in a stable.”

“Trapped, then.”

Sam must see something in Bucky’s expression that he doesn’t like because he corrects him, saying, “I’m not  _trapped_. I can go anywhere I want, but I always have to come back.”

Bucky leans back in his chair and tilts his head to the side. “I guess I get that.”

“Good, because that’s enough questions for the day.”

Smiling, Bucky says, “I think that’s a new record.”

“Don’t push your luck.” Sam stands and stretches his wings and arms, like he’s been cooped up for too long. Bucky supposes that’s pretty accurate. Sam’s wings span the entirety of any given room, if not surpassing that length on some occasions. They’re breathtaking, and also frightening. Bucky’s tempted to touch, but anytime he and Sam are close it feels like an industrial freezer is open. That, and the last time he touched Sam it didn’t bode so well for the skin on his only hand.

“Leaving already?” Bucky wonders as Sam paces about the kitchen.

Sam pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Why, want me to stay?”

Bucky isn’t sure about that. He knows he enjoys the company but part of him is convinced this is one elaborate web of hallucinations. So, how should he answer that question? Would any of his answers shed light on the issue…?

Probably not.

“It’s nice when you’re here.”

Sam freezes in place again, surprised. His wings hang open slightly, a mirror of his face. “I guess I could manage another hour.”

Bucky shakes his head and closes the jar of pickles he was snacking on. He barely touched them, too caught up in figuring out Sam. “You say that like an hour means everything to you.”

“You wouldn’t waste an angel’s time, would you?” Sam asks. He looks serious, but Bucky can tell he’s kidding.

Bucky gets up and shoves the jar back in the fridge, only saying, “Maybe it’s  _you_  who’s wasting  _mine_. Are you leaving or not?”

Sam comes closer. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Already almost died once, I don’t have much to lose.”

There’s an awkward and tense pause before Sam says, “I’ll stay a while longer. But I  _do_  have somewhere else to be later.” He looks Bucky over with a much softer gaze.

Bucky wants to pry, dig into what exactly Sam’s thinking, but he knows better so he only says, “Good. Now, do angels watch movies?”

~

God, it’s so  _hot_.

Bucky has trained for this, lived it time and time again, and still _every time_ he feels as if he might melt right out of his suit and slip right through the scorched floorboards beneath him.

This building, like many others, is a mess. There’s no  _way_  it started as a kitchen fire and got this out of hand so quickly. Not unless these people were hosting a barbecue for all of Brooklyn, Queens, and –  _you get the point_.

Bucky kicks down door after door searching for people inside, any pets he can get to that tenants were smart enough to leave without. It sounds harsh, but it’s nothing less than what they’d tell kids at the various school’s they visit on a monthly basis. Leave your pet behind if you can’t get to them quickly enough or if your life is endangered by staying to hunt for them.

That’s what  _Bucky’s_  job is. He’s the one who’s supposed to risk his life to rescue stubborn animals and unaware humans alike. Steve too, but Steve is kicking in doors on the other side of the hall.

The two of them move with precision, like they always do, an evenly matched pair that could probably take on this fire all on their own. They usher people out when they need to, grab cats when they can – even though these cats probably aren’t even supposed to be there, that’s none of their business. It’s all going so well. It’s all standard, right? Bucky is  _fine._  Steve is f– Steve is…

Steve?

Shit, where is he?

 _Steve!?_ Bucky calls out again. There’s no answer. Only static.

 _Oh no_ , Bucky thinks.  _No not again_. The fire in the room swirls and turns white. In the midst of the flames Bucky can see his reflection, but in that image he has two arms. In that image he’s someone he hasn’t been in at least a year and a half.

Steve cries something over the communication line between them, snapping Bucky out of his trance. He turns toward the nearest exit only to be trapped inside the room by the very door he would’ve used. Steve calls out to him again, but this time his voice is interrupted by static. Feedback that sounds like screams.

Bucky panics, hacking away at the wood to get to Steve in time. To get to Steve before –

_Please no! I can save him this time. I can **do** this. I promised him – I promised…_

It’s just another dream, another nightmare. The worst one Bucky never even dared to imagine. It never changes. Not a single detail of it deviates from the time Bucky lived it. How could he forget?

It was all  _standard_. Just another day on the job as a firefighter. Cut and dry. Except, everyone thought it was a kitchen fire gone wrong – no one could’ve predicted that it was a series of staggered events meant to set the whole building on fire all so the owner could collect insurance and rebuild. All so that he could run his tenants off only to start over again with higher rates. No one expected the empty apartments to be filled with accelerants galore. Bucky never  _expected_  Steve to be in the wrong place at the right time.

…Bucky never expected he’d lose someone he loved so god damn much because he wasn’t strong enough to pull him back up.

Why wasn’t he  _strong_ enough? Why couldn’t he pull Steve back up?

_Why couldn’t it have been **ME?!**_

~

Bucky jolts out of bed right as the defibrillator shocks him in his dream. He wakes up coughing, like he always does. Smoke inhalation. He wakes up with tears streaming down his face. Guilt unspeakable. He wakes up and screams only to choke on the words left unsaid. Sorrow unmatched.

Except this time the room gets ice cold. This time when Bucky looks up, a hiccup on his lips, an angel is standing there. His face is solemn, but he glows around the edges like hope is pouring out of him. Exuding happiness that can’t seem to make it past Bucky’s barriers.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks, voice scratchy. Of all the times he’d rather be alone, Sam sure chose a bad time to show himself willingly.

Sam seems to know that though. “Thought you might need a friend.”

Bucky laughs, though it’s tainted by his bitter pessimism. “Is that what we are, friends?”

“We could be.”

“But we  _aren’t_ ,” Bucky spits as he looks up from his hands.  **Hand**. He lost the other one when he lost Steve.

Sam is unperturbed by Bucky’s attitude, which is a lot more than Bucky can say for anyone else. “That’s why I said we  _could_  be.” He sits beside Bucky, but there’s a magnitude of space between them that almost seems insurmountable. “If you wanted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and gets up. He pulls his shirt from his body, happy that it only ever took one hand to do that, and throws it to the side. He always wakes up sweaty after that nightmare. “You’re the one who always acts like it’s a burden to be around me.”

“Now you’re just trying to push me away,” Sam says, annoyingly observant as always.

“God, Sam will you just – stop being so clinical about this. Stop being  _so_  –  **ugh**.”

Sam stands then, finds his way to Bucky’s side. His body is almost like a nightlight in the dark room and Bucky isn’t so sure he wants to see anything right now. “Stop being so detached?” he says, finishing for Bucky. When Bucky doesn’t say anything a rueful smile spreads across his lips. “It’s kinda hard when I know nothing about what you’re feeling. Don’t really have any other choice.”

More silence has Sam saying, “And you  _are_  trying to push me away. You’re testing me to see what the limit is. You do it all the time. Don’t let now be one of them.”

Bucky’s next breath shudders out of him and another tear falls down his face. “ _Sam_.”

“I was human once, too,” Sam says, quiet.

Bucky blinks and another tear inevitably falls. “What?”

“I think I would understand,” he goes on. “If you wanted me to.”

He shakes his head, chokes on his words. “I can’t.”

Sam nods once and finds his way to the open door of Bucky’s room. His wings tuck themselves neatly against his back, almost blending into one big oval. “A movie then,” Sam says, and it’s not a question. At least it doesn’t sound like it. It’s more of an open invitation.

Bucky sighs and looks at himself in the mirror, his eyes adjusted to the darkness well enough that he can see all his scars laid before him. His whole left side marred by uneven tissue, his arm gone at the elbow. The only thing that managed to escape unscathed was his face, and that was only because of the mask. A few more minutes and that wouldn’t have been the case. Part of Bucky’s neck is marbled and smooth from where the fire burned the skin there, crawling upward to consume him.

Oh, how he wishes it would have succeeded.

He closes his eyes and lets out a ragged breath. When he opens them they fall on the photo of him and Steve in their fireman’s overalls, arms slung around each other. They were so happy…

“I’m only doing this for you,” Bucky says. He lingers in the room for a few more minutes, kisses the corner of the photo, and then leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and what you'd like to know more of about Bucky and angels and Sam!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday omg, I'll come back to look at any flaws I might've missed later. Feel free to point them out.
> 
> ENJOY THE SAPPY HOLIDAY INTERLUDE<3

Bucky’s eyes flutter open, his mind waking when the slightest whiff of smoke and ozone mix into the usually stale air.

 _Sam_.

Bucky takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again. He doesn’t address the angel, not yet, he’s too busy cataloguing his thoughts. Too busy talking himself out of a mental corner. What’s interesting is Sam has wedged himself into that corner – both in a good and troubling way.

Sam is confusing, to say the least. He’s distant but warm, impassive yet full of expression. He’s like a paradox come to life, and one that Bucky finds himself increasingly drawn to. Whether that’s because Sam is a magnificent being capable of changing the tides of history or because Sam is ethereal in every sense of the word, Bucky isn’t sure. All he knows is that when he looks at Sam something inside of him slots into place that he wasn’t sure still existed. A kind of contentment, or happiness. Something lively and terrifying.

He’s not sure what it is that draws Sam to his space, be it him or some other divine purpose, but he’s not willing to push, afraid to find the answer. Despite Sam’s cryptic nature and the swirling pool of mystery that surrounds him, he’s the closest thing Bucky has had to a best friend in a very long time. There’s some sort of understanding between them, something Bucky can’t quite place his finger on. He feels like he knows something about Sam that he shouldn’t sometimes – how Sam is just as in need of a friend as he is.

Bucky sees it in the way Sam spaces out, how certain words will drain his face of expression and turn his eyes into an unseeing gold light. Or at least unseeing for the mortal plain. It’s the same kind of look humans get when they’ve lost something; it’s the same look Bucky gets when he accidentally burns something while cooking and remembers how he failed to get to Steve in time.

Sam looks haunted.

When Bucky opens his eyes again, Sam is sitting on the ground in front of him with his wings spread wide. Out in the open like this, Sam can stretch them out as much as he likes, and he _has_. They’re huge, both on their own and as a pair. The tawny feathers spread wide at one point as if stretching, and Bucky finds himself letting out an amused huff. Part of him wishes Sam would allow himself to appear with wings more often because they’re the most expressive thing about him. Though, that could be a reason why he doesn’t.

“Sunbathing?” Bucky asks quietly. His warm breath mingles with the frigid air and curls into a visible question.

Sam opens his eyes slowly with a faint smile on his lips. “I guess you could say that.” Behind him, his wings twitch and then fold forward slightly, shielding him like an umbrella might. “They needed a stretch.”

Bucky nods wordlessly and takes up looking them over once more. In the light like this, they seem even more unreal. The sun’s rays dance across the white patches in Sam’s mottled feathers and shines, making Sam seem more luminescent than usual.

“What is it?”

Bucky blinks until he can tear his gaze from the way each feather dances with the breeze and says, “What does it feel like?”

Sam draws his eyebrows downward and his wings twitch. “What does _what_ feel like?”

“Having wings. Is it like having two more arms, or something completely different. Do they get _tired_?” Bucky lets out a short breath and looks into Sam’s eyes.

Sam looks down with an amused tilt to his lips. “They feel like _wings_.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Wow, I never would’ve guessed.”

Sam pushes himself off of the gravel path and dusts his hands on his pants while saying, “Hey, you asked.”

As he comes forward Bucky says, “I asked what it was like having them.”

Sam gestures for Bucky to get off the park bench. It’s weird when they get this close. Between Bucky being taller than a being that is light personified and how weird the atmosphere around Sam is – it’s a dizzying experience every time.

Sam takes a deep breath, looking at Bucky. “And I told you, they feel like wings.”

“What exactly does that mean?” Bucky asks, his words mingling with the warmth of Sam’s.

Sam’s wings spread out again and a slight hum pierces the stagnant air in the park. A metallic hum, or nonhuman at the least. It’s the very hum Bucky has taken to attributing to the times when Sam makes himself “more human.” Whatever that means. Regardless, Sam’s touch usually follows shortly after, and the thought makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat.

Just as expected, Sam takes Bucky’s hand and pulls the glove off of it. Within Sam’s grasp the cold air may as well be nonexistent because Bucky can’t feel anything but warmth. And that’s another one of those confusing things about Sam. Not only is his personality hot and cold but his body too, and in the strangest of ways. It’s like he regulates his temperature according to how he’s going to interact with something.

Back in the moment, Bucky catches the way Sam’s eyes burn bright gold for the briefest moment right as he says, “Touch one of the feathers.”

 _Anyone_ would be hard pressed to fight the urge not to touch wings as large as Sam’s, but something about the action, or maybe the _permission_ to do so, has Bucky in a bit of a mental tailspin. His hand stretches past Sam’s shoulder, but he hesitates at the last second. “You sure?”

Sam’s lips thin. “I think that’s something I should be asking you.”

Rather than ask the obvious question, “ _why on earth would you ask **me** if I’m sure?_ ” Bucky reaches out and strokes his finger over the threads of one of the darker feathers. No sooner does he touch it, the world around him goes grey and Sam disappears.

When he opens his eyes again he’s free falling through the air. Before he can panic about falling to his apparent death, something across his back unfolds and he’s being jerked backward and up into the sky. It feels just like holding onto the monkey bars as a child. The muscles in his back strain and burn, but the pain quickly fades and all that’s left is effortless movement. Weightlessness and cool air in his lungs are quick to follow.

This time when Bucky blinks, he finds himself standing in front of Sam again. His lungs burn and the hair across his hand is raised, and for just a second there’s still a foreign tension in his back muscles.

Sam tilts his head upward slightly, looking into Bucky’s eyes. “That’s what it feels like.”

“I feel like that’s something you could’ve said,” Bucky replies on a shaky breath. His fingers still hover just beyond the reach of the feathers.

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” Sam says. He puts the glove back on Bucky’s hand and jerks his head to the side. “Now go _home_. You’ve been out here for two hours. I’m not making you soup if you catch a cold again.”

~

The holidays are always a bittersweet time for Bucky. Between his sister living across the country, his mother being dead, and Steve… well, it’s just not as colorful as it used to be for Bucky.

He used to be excited for his mother’s family dinner, and spending time fireside with Steve was always something to look forward to. But now, in the grey light of his apartment, Bucky isn’t so sure he cares. He’s been avoiding that truth for weeks now, and he’s been bracing himself for the day that Sam brings it up. It’s inevitable really – almost everything with Sam is.

Sam was there when Bucky had that nightmare for the first time in weeks, Sam knew without asking that Bucky sat in his shower for thirty minutes because of the pain, both physical and mental, and Sam was even there when Bucky plummeted head first into a panic attack in the middle of grocery shopping.

So, he knows that Sam knows. But Bucky isn’t so sure he wants to accept the fact that he _himself_ knows the holiday spirit is just – _gone_.

Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shoves his mug into the microwave. He jabs his fingers into the numbers and then sets the power on medium. Just as he hits the start button he hears, “What, no Christmas music?”

“I’m Jewish,” Bucky says as he stares at the rotating plate in front of him.

Sam comes up beside him and says, “And you don’t have any latkes?”

Despite the stone weighing heavily in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, his lips curl upward at the corners. “I like to make them myself when I have the time and energy.”

The microwave chirps at Bucky, begging his attention. He opens the door, retrieves his mug, and says, “Did you come here to force me to celebrate the holidays?”

Sam takes the packet of hot chocolate out of his hand and opens it for him. He probably saw that time Bucky opened it with his teeth and got it _everywhere_. He hands it back so that Bucky can pour it in himself though, which Bucky appreciates since he’s not a _complete_ child.

“No, I stopped by because you were hiding in your room with the lights off again.”

“Yeah, well, the sun hurts my eyes,” Bucky drawls as he twirls his spoon through the powdered chocolate mix. He hopes he can get to the marshmallows before they melt like they did last time.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Get some sunglasses, it’s been three days.”

“Since when do you care how long I spend time in my room?”

“Since you woke up screaming someone’s name and refused to talk for a week,” Sam replies. There’s no venom in the statement, nor is it an accusation, it just is.

Bucky lets his spoon clink against the side of the mug. “ _Sam_.”

“I’m not asking you to talk about it. I know better. I’m just here to get you out of the house.” He takes a step back and looks Bucky over. “How is your hip feeling?”

Bucky turns to look at Sam. He thinks about lying as he takes a sip of his hot chocolate. He also thinks about telling Sam to leave and pretending he doesn’t feel like talking. But, surprisingly, none of those things feel like the right thing to do or say. So, Bucky pulls the mug away from his mouth, licks the foam from his lips, and says, “Depends on what you want me to do.”

“Up for a walk?” Sam asks. It sounds like there’s something he’s not saying though.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “How _long_ of a walk… and where?”

“Not long, and you’ll see.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and sets his mug down. “Do I _have_ to?”

“No, but I think you’d enjoy it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Bucky flicks his mug and says, “Give me thirty minutes.”

When he’s finished getting ready he finds Sam standing by his front door buttoning a coat and looking surprisingly human. Normally he’s dressed in one solid color, usually white or grey or black, and he looks exactly like someone who doesn’t belong on earth. Something plucked from space. Right now he looks exceptionally mundane and real, and something about it makes Bucky’s skin tingle.

Sam looks up after brushing his hands over the coat and says, “You might want to bring a scarf or something.”

Bucky lets out an amused huff. “I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” Sam intones. He opens the door and waits for Bucky to follow.

It takes about ten minutes for Bucky to have any clue what’s going on, and when he figures it out he lets out an audible groan. “Sam, please tell me you’re not taking me ice skating.”

“I’m not, you’re taking _me_ ice skating. It’s been years, I could use the break.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh. “Aren’t you all powerful? Couldn’t you go skating whenever you wanted to?”

Sam turns around and walks backward so that he can look at Bucky. “It’s no fun going all by yourself.”

“Then bring a friend,” Bucky says, voice flat.

“That’s what you’re here for.” Sam fires back with a pointed look.

Bucky lets out a short, punctuated breath. “Y’know this isn’t what I had in mind when you mentioned getting me out of the house.”

Sam smirks. “What _were_ you expecting?”

“You forcing me to get groceries, you dragging me to a movie, I don’t know. What do angels usually do in their spare time?”

“Think,” Sam replies. It’s a very succinct and hollow response compared to everything else he’s said tonight.

Bucky tucks his thoughts about that away and says, “How long has it been since you’ve gone ice skating?” to diffuse whatever _that_ was.

Sam pauses and looks up, his eyebrows scrunched in thought. “That’d be a little hard to explain.”

“Is this another one of your angel things?”

“It’s a human thing. Time is a human metric that angels don’t use quite the same. It’s like comparing inches to centimeters – one of those makes more sense depending on who you are.”

Bucky catches up to Sam and they walk side-by-side again. “Mind saying that in English?”

Sam shoots him a dry look and says, “Thirty years for you could be milliseconds for me. Giving you a number would be impossible and confusing.”

“Well I’m already confused.”

“This is why I tell you not to ask me questions about angels.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Then what _can_ I ask you about?”

“Whatever you’d ask another human.”

 _Hmm_.

He considers that as they each check out a pair of skates, and he continues to ruminate on the subject as he slips them on. Sam offers to tie them, and when he kneels in front of Bucky to do so, Bucky says, “What’s your name?”

Sam lets out a startled laugh and looks up. “You already know the answer to that question.”

“No, I know a nickname that you wrote on a napkin.”

Without looking away from Bucky’s eyes, Sam cinches the laces tightly on the right skate and says, “Samuel.”

“That an angel name or your actual name?”

Sam snorts. “My actual name.”

“Do you have a last name?” Bucky asks, leaning forward. Sam looks down and ties the other ice skate with a sigh.

“Wilson.”

“Samuel Wilson,” Bucky says, rolling the name around on his tongue. Something about it seems familiar. He follows Sam’s gaze as the angel stands and says, “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

Holding out a hand, Sam says, “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask my name?”

Sam lifts an eyebrow and pulls Bucky up. They’re almost uncomfortably close when Sam says, “I already know your name, James.”

“You could at least pretend,” Bucky mutters as he hobbles toward the edge of the rink with Sam.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Bucky lets out an amused huff. “I didn’t realize you were capable of having fun.” He gives Sam a dubious once over and says, “Your feathers are always in a bunch, I don’t see how you have any room for it.”

Sam rolls his eyes and lets go of Bucky’s arm. He grabs it again as soon as he sees Bucky wobble though, and eventually just links arms with him. “My feathers are always in a bunch because of _you_.”

“Aw, do you care about me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam answers irritably. “Why would I be here if I didn’t?”

Bucky’s arm tightens around Sam’s ever so slightly. He squashes that weird fuzzy feeling that’s at the back of his mind before he says, “You tell me.”

Sam looks at Bucky for a moment as they slowly waddle their way across the ice. Well, Bucky is waddling. Sam is graceful, which is unsurprising. “Ask me a question and I might.”

“Why are you here?”

Sam frowns and looks away again. “That’s a question about angels.”

“No,” Bucky says, tugging on Sam until he looks again. “That’s a question about you. I don’t care why the other angels are here, or what they’re doing, I want to know why _you_ are here.”

Sam is silent for so long Bucky actually gets his bearings on the ice. Finally, Sam says, “I’m here because I need to be.”

“Do you want to be, though?”

Sam looks at Bucky with the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I’m starting to.”

They don’t stay to skate much longer, but they do stay longer than Bucky expected to in the first place. And, despite Bucky’s newfound balance, he doesn’t let go of Sam at all the entire time – and Sam doesn’t let go of him either. It’s just them, background noise, and the stars.

On their way back the cold starts to get to Bucky, and without saying anything Sam stops and undoes the scarf he had on. As he drapes it around Bucky’s neck he says, “I told you to bring a scarf.”

His fingers tuck the fuzzy material into Bucky’s jacket gently, pausing once the job is done. Bucky looks into Sam’s brown eyes – really looks – for the first time, and he thinks he might be able to see answers to a lot of questions that have been plaguing him. But rather than ask for them he brings his hand up and puts it over one of Sam’s. “You’ve got me covered just fine.”

“I won’t always be here, you know.”

Bucky shrugs. “You’re here now though.”

A quiet sigh falls from Sam’s lips, the only indication of its presence being the fog it transforms into. He adjusts Bucky’s scarf one last little bit and then says, “For now.”

“That’s good enough.”

Sam’s lips twitch up at the corners. “Good.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017, welcome to hell.

“What exactly are you saying?” Natasha asks, her legs crossed, one foot bobbing impatiently.

Sam turns around and shoots her a look. “Exactly what it sounds like, Nat.”

“That you felt something? For a _human_.” Her eyes light up for a brief moment, the only indication that she’s invested in this conversation on more than just a baseline level. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, her irritation bleeding through. “I _told_ you. I **_told_** you not to g–”

“ **I know** ,” Sam interjects, his voice hard and cold. “I know. I know – they’re temporary, I can’t save them from the inevitable, I’m not supposed to, it’s forbidden. **I. know.** ”

Sam turns away again and brings his hands to his face, half to hide and half to block out the severity of the situation. His wings twitch at his back, full of anxious energy. “It wasn’t on _purpose_.”

“But you knew,” she hisses.

“ _And_?”

“Separate yourself! You know better, Sam. There are ways to save you from situations like this. Reassignment, vacations, a temporary guard,” she says, going on and on.

“I don’t need saving,” he snaps. “Nothing has changed between us. All I said was that I felt something. I didn’t come here to be patronized, I came to you because I was confused.”

Natasha lets out a heavy sigh and looks up, groaning shortly thereafter. “You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sam mutters.

“Come here.”

Sam lowers one of his wings so he can look over his shoulder. “Why?”

“ _Please_.” She draws out the e, her mouth warping dramatically as she says it.

Sam lets out a put-upon huff and turns, his wings dragging on the roof as he does. He reluctantly sits down across from her and says, “What.”

“Give me your hand.”

“Natasha.”

She narrows her eyes and sets her jaw. “I’m doing something that’s hard for me, so either give me your hand or leave.”

He holds out a hand and grabs hers once it’s within reach. “That’s no reason to be upset with me.”

“It is when you’re watching someone do the same exact fucking thing you did,” Nat grumbles.

Before Sam can ask for clarification the world around him goes black. It takes a few seconds, but the next time he blinks he sees a life on fast forward. A woman’s life.

“She was 28 when I met her,” Sam hears Nat say through the fog.

The veil in front of him shifts and suddenly he can see Natasha, perched in a tree, watching this blonde woman from afar. The story progresses, slowly, and all the while Natasha narrates it. Almost perfectly, too.

“I was assigned to be her guardian when she joined the CIA. I could tell why she needed a guardian as soon as I saw her. She had this spark in her eyes – determination, I thought. Really it was selflessness, her willingness to sacrifice something for the greater good. Even herself.”

The image shifts again, and this time Sam sees Natasha speaking with this human – her ward. A sinking feeling falls into the pit of Sam’s stomach, but it doesn’t have time to settle because Nat’s voice pulls his attention back. “She was amazing. I’d never seen a human like her, neither in life nor death. I fell, head over heels. I knew what I was doing, knew the risks, and I still went after her.” She chuckles. “Stupid.”

Once again, the screen shifts and this time he sees Nat staring longingly into this woman’s eyes, a soft smile on her face, the look of which Sam has never seen on Natasha’s face in all their eons of friendship.

“I knew our time would be short. What I didn’t know was the consequence of my love. How even that could affect the timeline.”

Suddenly everything goes black again, but this time, rather than having another image appear or the real world come back, Sam feels as though he’s being pulled down into something. Something heavy and unbreakable.

And then he hears it… A gun shot.

Nat’s voice is weaker this time when he hears her. It’s not watery the way a person crying would sound, it’s just broken and tired. “She felt invincible with me beside her. Something I was unaware of, something I should have addressed.” A sigh falls into the blank space Sam is trapped in. “Sharon sacrificed herself thinking I’d be there to curb the pain afterwards, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even get close enough to see her go. They wouldn’t let me.”

Sam blinks and he finds himself on the roof again, his hand still in Natasha’s. She stares at it intently, her thumb dragging over the lines in Sam’s skin. “I know you, so I’m not going to try and stop you.” She squeezes his hand, firm but not a warning or reprimand. It’s more like a hug. “I just want you to be careful. It seems easy now to think that you can distance yourself from those emotions after the fact, when there’s no physical vessel to evoke them anymore. But, with our lives that sort of thing sticks around, and it sticks around forever. Just like us.”

She sets her other hand on top of his, patting it twice. “She was enough to make me feel, and once you feel for them there’s no turning it off. There’s a reason they teach us to distance ourselves.”

With that, she stands and slowly lets Sam’s hand fall from her grasp. Her smile is flat and full of something like regret, but she offers it to him nonetheless before she leaves. “Good luck.”

Natasha’s words linger overhead in the following weeks, but they have this sort of dual effect. On some days, Sam will hear her words in the back of his mind and shy away from any contact with Bucky. Careful to keep him at an arm’s length lest he get any ideas about invulnerability with Sam around. But then there’s the other days; the ones where Sam hears Natasha remind him that humans are temporary, and it’s on those days Sam feels this urgent pull.

If their days are truly numbered, consequently numbering the days Sam could spend with him, wouldn’t it be best to stay close – to savor those moments? Or, is it best to remain flippant and deny any interest whatsoever so that when the inevitable happens Sam feels nothing, just as he was trained?

~

“Hey Sam?” Bucky says from where his head rests in Sam’s lap.

“What?” Sam asks absently as he runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. It levels him out whenever he’s stressed, or so he says. Sam gets the feeling Bucky just wants someone to brush his hair for him sometimes.

Bucky turns to look up at him. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’re really here?”

Sam’s fingers stall in place and his eyebrows fall. “I already told you, it’s because I _have_ to be.”

“Yeah but there’s gotta be a reason.”

“Does there?” Sam asks, half exasperated.

Bucky’s eyes waver between his and the silence in that moment is tense. Eventually Bucky looks back at the TV and says, “I just want to know how long you’ll be here.” The tone in which he says it is hollow, like he’s not expecting much.

And isn’t that funny? Here Sam is, concerned that his time with Bucky is limited while Bucky sits and wonders the same thing, all while knowing that he’ll die eventually. A being of finite time and space, concerned about the length of Sam’s stay. Something about it feels ironic.

Still, Sam understands the severity of the statement – of Bucky’s concern. “I don’t exactly have plans to go anywhere anytime soon. Unless you want me to.”

Bucky lets out a heavy sigh. “You’ve already said that time works differently for you than it does for me. What’s long for you could mean something completely different for me.”

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, getting to the point. “This isn’t a question about me, is it, because it sounds like this is something else.”

With another sigh, Bucky pushes himself up and settles on the opposite end of the couch from Sam. “It’s both. I just – I’m not in a place where I can gracefully handle temporary friendships. For the old me it wouldn’t have been an issue, but I don’t want to –” The conversation falls quiet, tension rising.

“To what?” Sam gently prompts. His insides churn and swirl.

Bucky looks back at Sam, his eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t want to get attached if you’re going to disappear one day.”

“Nothing is permanent, you know that.”

“You’re living proof that that’s not true!” he says impatiently. “What’s long-term for you _is_ permanent for me. I don’t get to move through time the way you do, so I’m asking you, is this temporary?”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat. He didn’t realize they’d be having this conversation so soon. Although the conversation itself proves that ‘soon’ is relative. “It depends.”

“On _what_?”

“You,” Sam answers, his voice feather soft. “It depends on you.”

Bucky’s eyebrows fall and his mouth opens in question only to shut again shortly after. He rubs his hand over his face and then says, “Why would it depend on _me_? I already told you I don’t want you to leave.”

“Then I won’t,” Sam says, as if it’s that simple. Really it isn’t and he knows that. He could be reassigned, another war between good and evil could rise to the surface and he could be drafted in to keep the peace, any number of things could happen. But, in this perfect little world that Sam pretends he’s sitting in, it won’t, which is exactly why he says that.

“What if you do?” Bucky asks, nervously. It’s not overt, but there’s an undertone to his words – this slight hiccup in the normal cadence of his voice.

Sam sighs. “What’s got you so concerned all of a sudden? You weren’t this worried about me disappearing before – if anything you wanted me gone.”

“Because I didn’t _know_ you. You were some strange thing in my house – in my _life_ – and any time I wanted to be alone you were just… **there**. And now I’m used to it, and I don’t know if I want to be.”

Something about the statement stings, but Sam understands. It’s the same way he feels. Tricked almost. Like his mind skipped ahead without permission and fell into a hole that even angelic powers couldn’t reach the depths of. “Tell me to leave, then.”

“I don’t _want_ you to,” Bucky says, gruff.

“Then what _do_ you want?” Sam asks, one part annoyed and one part confused. “What do you want from me?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches and he looks away again. “I already told you.”

“No, you asked me a question and then told me everything you _didn’t_ want. Tell me what you **_do_** want.”

“ _You_ ,” Bucky answers abruptly, throwing his hand outward as he does. “I want _you_. I want you to stay; I like having you here, I like _you_ , but I don’t want to get used to you if you’re gonna leave too.”

Sam’s mind stutters. “What?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Sam.”

“No – I. You _what_?” He looks at Bucky, _really_ looks, and replays that last bit in his head.

A myriad of emotions cross Bucky’s face only to disappear behind his walls. “Nothing. Forget it.”

He stands up and heads toward the next room, but Sam catches up quickly, grabbing his hand to stop him. “What did you mean?”

“Exactly what I _said_ ,” Bucky intones, pulling his hand away.

“You said you wanted me.” Sam’s grip loosens until Bucky slips away, but neither of them move.

When Bucky looks up his eyes are clouded by emotion and his features are drawn tight. “I did. I _do_.”

“As a friend or an angel?”

There’s a long pause. “Neither.”

Sam steadies himself. “Then?”

“Can I touch you?” Bucky asks, seemingly off-topic.

“What does that –?”

“Yes or no?”

“ _Yes_ , but –”

Bucky pulls Sam into a firm but fleeting kiss. He looks at Sam after the fact and lets out a shaky breath. “That… I meant that.”

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Bucky shakes his head and wets his lips. “I need you to be blunt. Tell me to stop if you don’t want this, because if you don’t I won’t b–”

Sam pulls him in by his shirt and presses their mouths together again, chaste and wanting all at once. The movement is an old one, and one he hasn’t practiced in what feels like lifetimes, but something about it feels so natural that he doesn’t care how rusty he probably is. He opens his mouth only to close it around one of Bucky’s lips, kissing him again, and it’s so slow, so tentative. _Afraid_.

Bucky’s eyes remain closed even when they part, and he whispers, “Are you sure?”

Sam holds a shaky hand against Bucky’s face. “Are _you_?”

“I’ve been sure for three months, and that was just when I accepted it,” Bucky says as he pulls Sam in again.

Sam’s wings twitch and unfold, falling slack as Bucky licks into his mouth. All those blips of emotion Sam discredited and ignored, everything he told himself not to feel, it all comes surging to the surface. It’s frightening, but at the same time Sam has never felt more alive – more _normal_. It almost makes him feel human. The reactions all these feelings elicit are certainly human; all those basal things like lust and attraction – things Sam probably shouldn’t feed into. It’s mildly unnerving.

“Wait,” Sam manages to say between one kiss and the next. His back hits a wall and his wings curve forward instinctively to avoid damage, miniscule as it may be, and their curvature creates a sort of bubble. A space with just the two of them. A space where Sam forces himself to think as an angel who swore to be a guardian to those in need instead of someone whose judgment right now is so clearly tainted by emotion. “I don’t – I’m not perfect.”

Bucky laughs. “And you think I am?”

“No. I –” he lets out an impatient huff. “I don’t want you to think I’m some magic cure all. I can’t fix everything, or save you, or whatever else you might think.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Bucky says, short. “The only thing I’m asking you to do is stay here with me.”

Sam nods, though terrified of the consequences of doing so, and allows himself to be pulled back into the warm embrace of Bucky’s lips against his and the weight of his hand on his lower back. He lets himself melt into the sensation, bask in the glow of Bucky’s affection that he is so vibrantly emitting, and when the time comes he lets himself be guided into bed.

It’s been so long since he’s been treated with this kind of attention that it’s almost too much; the feel of Bucky on him, in him, around him. He’d scold himself for moving so fast, for jumping straight from Go to Finish, but when he knows how he feels – and how Bucky feels the same – he can’t seem to dredge up the wherewithal to do so. Not when he feels for the first time in ages. Not when his heart beats as though it might thrum out of his chest, despite not really being there.

For the first time in a long time, Sam just doesn’t care. Consequence is a word for another day. Today belongs to adoration – to _love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.  
> Well, that happened.
> 
> Leave me a comment with your thoughts and what else you want to see if you enjoyed this update. I'd greatly appreciate it<3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading<3  
> feedback is always appreciated either here or [@zamnwilson](http://zamnwilson.tumblr.com)!


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